


Butt Dial or Booty Call?

by nevtelenwriting



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Deadpool is a mess ok, I can't believe I've used that tag twice now, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, The boxes make an appearance, They don't bone but there's lots of active imaginations abound, This is Deadpool after all, Voice Kink, phonesex without the phonesex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: Wade is innocently minding his own business when Spider-man gives him a completely un-innocent, probably unintentional call on his cellphone. What's an emotional wreck with a giant crush on the Friendly Neighborhood Do-Gooder to do?





	Butt Dial or Booty Call?

**Author's Note:**

> (This is based on no specific Spider-man or Deadpool incarnation. At the least Peter is in college, 18+, and Wade is somewhere in that late 20s to mid-30s range. Wade lives with Blind Al still and hasn't married Shiklah. 
> 
> This might be a part of a longer fic I want to write, but we all know how good I am at completing long fics. So we'll see!)

Wade nearly **[Did.]** squeal like a fangirl when Spidey gave him his cell number and said he could text if he needed help, needed to catch up, needed a lead, and all sorts of professional things Spidey _had_ to know would never happen as long as his phone lived. Spidey looked away when he handed Wade the piece of paper, hiding his already-hidden face like a true tsundere and Wade clutched that little paper slip all the way home. He tried to memorize it, but well, he kind of sucks at that, so he put it in his phone, each digit lovingly caressed like a 6-month anniversary oil massage, and dialed.

They talked for three hours ( _Spidey talked?)_  before he realized Spider-man had fallen asleep, and those gentle little snorts were better than any present Spidey could have gotten him for their anniversary. Later, he even apologized. _Adorable._

Spidey usually texts for work-things, gross, but each time when Wade calls he sounds not as exasperated and even occasionally talks back. However, now that Spidey has staunchly convinced himself that they're actually friends, and made it a point to assure Wade every time Wade reminded him they really _weren't_ , Spidey has been more engaged with the talking thing, too. He even laughs. What Spidey doesn't know is talking helps, if he keeps up chattering it quiets the _other_ chatter, but well, he doesn't need to unpack all his crazy at once, does he? 

Anyway, they talk now, because they _are_ friends, dammit, and Wade is going to hang onto that delusion for as long as his knubby, pureed hands are attached to him **[Not long.]**

It's a surprise anyway when his phone vibrates. The second surprise is when he sees it's Spidey.

The third surprise in his phone vibrating is that it's not on his crotch but the _fourth_ surprise is that less than twenty minutes ago, they just finished a phone call. _(Maybe it's sexting time!)_

Several months after Spidey made the frankly unfortunate decision of giving him his number, Wade discovered a juicy euphemism involving eggplant and tossing salad for Spidey **[Stop with the puns and just tell him, moron]**  when Spidey cut him off with the apparent urgent need to sleep for his day job, and Wade lamented his goodbyes to the phone. Nothing out of the ordinary, though the abrupt end was less common. The call back was definitely unordinary. So unless this was a booty call _(Please be a booty call)_ , it was an emergency.

Wade carefully closes the Deadpool comic he pinched through the Wall, then picks up the phone and flops down on his back.

"Aw, honeybuns, you just couldn't resist this eggplant, could you? I wasn't lying, I'm not exaggerating this vegetable ripeness and it's dying to toss your salad."

Silence. Wade frowns. 

"Hello?" He sings into the phone, and there's still no response. His stomach clenches, but he makes himself start snickering.

"Spideysalad, I can't believe you butt-dialed me! I'm honored and offended. You know, of course, that this means war, expect eggplants in your future."

Of course Spidey can't hear him, so he'll text it to him, with _plenty_ of emojis to follow, but also a quick “R u ok?” to be sure. It’s not like Wade could find him if he sincerely is in trouble, which wasn’t a concern until this exact moment.

Wade pulls the phone away from his ear, but halts his thumb over the red button to end the call when he hears the noise. It's low, rumbling and soft but Wade has enough experience with sex-sounds to know that is  _definitely_ a moan. Alright, so maybe the sex-sound is a pain-sound and Spidey is actually hurt. Wade shoves the phone back to his ear, sits up while already flicking through memories he promised to not use against Spidey to try to find where he lived, or at least close enough.

"Non-identity risking name? You there?"

Nothing, but he hears a creak next, a shuffling of the phone probably bouncing on bed sheets  _(Oh, naughty boy)_ and now a very high moan Wade will give the dignity of _not_ calling a  _whimper_. Holy _shit._

Well. He’s not in distress. _(Not the unfun kind, anyway.)_

Wade looks at the phone, with a furrowed mask-face of Spidey staring back with mask-face Wade smashed into his cheek for the selfie. **[Hang. Up.]** He hovers his thumb over the "end call" again, _(Aw come on, he's having fun)_  and then carefully moves it over, clicks the "mute" button. He puts the phone back to his ear, lays down, and listens. Now that he's quiet, and focusing, yes, Spidey is most definitely doing what he thought he was doing, and he's having a real good time doing it.

The chatterboxes start mumbling, but he can ignore them for now. He pushes his ear harder against the speaker, plugs his other ear though he knows it's silent in his bedroom, and that's when he can hear Spidey panting. It wavers a little, still mostly steady, since he can't be more than a few minutes in.   _(Maybe he started when we were still talking, naughty naughty boy.)_ **[He's not us, he wouldn't.]**

When Wade holds his suddenly a-little-bit-shaky breath, he's sure he can hear the slick sound of hand on skin, _(Lube or spit?)_ and the creak of what must be a really shitty bed rhythmically squeaking to the movement. Oh, that paints a _glorious_  image, though it comes at him like an unexpected camera flash, sees in a second Spidey raising his hips to meet his fist, fucking himself right through a ring of tight fingers, those soft lips he's seen only a few times parted in pleasure and _oh_.

**[Is THIS the part where we hang up and give our friend some dignity?]**

( _What's dignity? Sounds gross.)_

Wade bites his lip, uncovers his ear and guides his hand to his crotch, grinds down on the thickening length there and flutters his eyes closed to focus on his breathing. He doesn't know why he's quiet, he knows Spidey can't hear any sounds that will alert him to his mistake, but he doesn't want to miss a _second_ of this.

Wade's face heats in pinpricks when that heavy panting is joined every few breaths by a soft, restless moan, the creaking of those shit springs picking up pace. Fuck, his hand must not be enough. It rarely is, and Wade drags his teeth over his bottom lip, holds back a moan at the thought of taking Spidey in his mouth, letting him push Wade down until his nose hits his groin and fucks his throat to the rhythm of those springs.

**[Aannd our hand is down our pants.]**

Wade doesn't remember when his hands grew sentience—he wouldn't be surprised—but his shirt is pushed up to his shoulders, and his hand has left the teasing barrier of cotton and has dived down the front of his sweats and boxers, wrapped tight around his own very hard cock. 

_(Live a little, this is fun!)_

Wade nearly bites through his lip to keep quiet. Those soft pants hitch with another shameless sound as sweet as honey, long and drawn at like a thick dollop of that syrup. Wade's hand slips on the phone. He doesn't remember when he started to sweat. He fumbles for the phone and hits the speaker, the immediately drops his hand to his thigh to dig his nails into it. The heat prickles down his neck now, down his spine and he can feel the perspiration trickling over his sides. He really needs to fix the air conditioning.

**[Because that's the concern right now.]**

He is usually pretty quiet when he does this bit, he does have a roommate with hearing still intact and he’s not a total asshole sometimes. Mostly, he doesn't want to talk to the boxes when he's getting himself off. But they do chatter back, no matter what. When he's with a partner, all bets are off of course, because talking quiets the boxes and he wants to be _with_  his partner, and he can keep them from saying stupider shit than he knows he comes up with half the time.

He can't quiet them like this though. No matter how much he wants to talk, he _wishes_  he could talk, he wishes Spidey could hear him _moan_ , he can't, and his mind races with everything he wants to say. He would tell Spidey how beautiful he sounds, how desperate _(He must be drenched. Let's lick it off his neck, next time we see him)_ **,** how good he must be squeezing himself **[How about we don’t let him find out?]** because he can _hear_ it _. (Who cares?)_ He wants to know what he's thinking, wants to know what he's feeling, what he does to make himself feel good **[This is disgusting]** , if his other hand is occupiedand where that hand is _(No way, this is getting good)_. Are his fingers buried in his mouth?Is he pinching his nipples, pulling his hair? Maybe it's none of those  **[We've done awful shit to friends but this is easily top ten]** _,_ maybe he's using both on his cock and his tight, aching balls because he _has_ to be, the way his moans tremble and the way his hips stutter on that creaking bed  _(Lighten up already let a man dream)._ Or maybe that's all him, Wade can't really tell anymore.

Maybe Spidey's thinking of nothing like Wade often does **[Really bad at it]** , but maybe he's thinking of a pretty girl, or maybe a pretty guy _(Like us please say us that's too funny),_ and oh, that thought makes Wade twitch, feels the pre-come beading up at the slit of his aching cock. It rubs slick against the front of his pants, the friction making him jerk and swallow another sound too high-pitched for a groan anymore. He would have worn his teenager-jerk-off pants if he knew this was going to happen, fuck. 

 **[If we think he can't stand us now just wait.]**  

He's jerked off enough times to Spidey, too—

_(Ugly bastard beating our meat stick to Spidey it's too good please please tell him unmute it!)_

**[Or we keep our pathetic pie hole shut.]**

—that he falls into happily familiar images, but now there's sounds to accompany it. Wade hangs on every pant and squeak and sigh  _(He sounds like such a sweet little slut),_ barely paying attention to the way his own hips snap up into his fist, the sweat pouring off his skin or how the awkward moisture sticks his shirt to his back. Everything is louder now, Spidey gasping what sounds directly into the phone. Both his own hands are around his cock, cheek plastered to the phone at a weird angle, but nothing would make him stop even if it'd kill him—not much of a threat—so he deals with it.

He's close anyway, he's so close just listening to him, it can't have been that long but he's on the edge embarrassingly fast and is wearing a hole in his lip keeping quiet but he _can't_ keep it all back **[We need to stop]** though Spidey sounds like he's still taking his grand old time, interspersing his heavy breath with curses now and Wade wants to _feel_ him form the word _fuck_ on his skin. He squeezes down to take the edge off _(oh please we can just come again, keep coming and coming all night like a filthy Energizer Bunny)_ and sucks in a few deep breaths.

Spidey's rhythm changes. He must have changed up hand positions, because now his moans are louder, higher towards those not-whimpers, more desperate and— **[Oh.]** and  _keening._ That's the word, he's keening for it because there's hurt there, and Wade knows, he can't actually but he knows from experience he _must_ be fucking himself. It's either his fingers or a toy he had ready, but there's no sound like being split open, and god, is Spidey making it. He's small, _(Twink!)_ **[Jailbait.]** anything must feel big to him, two fingers to a full-on cock and fuck, he's so young, has he _ever_ been fucked?

 _(We should fuck him)_  

Did he do this all the time, tease open that small hole? 

**[We HAVEN'T been laid in a while, wonder why.]**

Would he want to do it to Wade?How much would it take to pin him down? It'd be so easy for Spidey, he's so strong, but for Wade to—

 _(YES yes please make him squeal make him cry he sounds sooo so pretty)_  

 **[We fuck everything else, why not ruin him too?]**  

Would he _let_ him?

_(Let's take him apart hear him beg he'd beg so nice we know he would)_

He would have to, Spidey would have to  _let_ anyone fuck him, oh  _fuck--_ He couldn't, he _wouldn't_ , no matter how much Wade wants it, his dick pounding underneath his scarred fingertips at the fantasy alone, Spidey could never, ever trust Wade that much and any other way? He needed to stop, he couldn't let the boxes put ideas—

Spidey's pants come in fast suddenly, like he picked up pace fucking himself like he's close or he found that _sweet_ sweet spot that makes stars dance in his eyes, would make anyone beg, then Wade doesn't hear anything from all three sides. He instead nearly squeezes his own dick off in surprise when Spidey gasps out, a ragged, _wrecked,_ "Wade!"

There's silence, and then the boxes are riotous, talking over each other and he can't hear a word but Wade nearly bites through his tongue, his eyes wide while he fumbles for the phone, unlatches it from his face for some unknown fear of accidentally unmuting _now._ As soon as the not-crisis is averted Wade releases the pent-up everything; he moans, a harsh, loud ragged sound so close to a cry that it barely sounds like pleasure, more like a vibrator turned on way too high on way too sensitive areas. 

"F-fuck! Fuck, fuck, oh my god, oh f-fuck, oh f- _fuck—"_   Wade doesn't know when he sat up, curled into himself but he slams himself back down, his hips arching off the bed to his inadequate hands.

"W-Wade, shit!" Spidey says it _again_ , and it's so desperate, Wade can hear the catch in his throat, the panting picking up speed to unsteady gasps and he knows Spidey's about to come, he's going to _come_ and he's pleading for it, has himself stuffed full with Wade's name on his lips and it's too much.

Wade's hand flies over his steel-hard cock now, hips off the bed so he can shove his pants down to his thighs. He's so _fucking_ close, Spidey's voice is breaking on his moans now and Wade has never wanted to know Spidey's real name as badly as this moment. He wants to match Spidey, he wants to be _there_ , wants to shove his own fingers inside him and feel what he's feeling, taste his name on his mouth, give him  _everything_ he was imagining on the other side of this cruel phone give him all of it and more more _more—_

Wade makes a sound more like a sob when he peaks, pulsing hard enough to hit his chin and most of his chest. The roaring in his ears blocks out the boxes like it always does, but it doesn't block out Spidey. Oh no, he hears every one of those hitching gasps in his breath, then a muffled cry like he covers his mouth, high and shaking through his nose and his fingers and Wade would give anything to see his face right now, flushed, covered in sweat, deliciously broken apart by the pleasure of his own hand and thinking of _him_.

Wade fumbles for the phone, and while Spidey is still catching his breath he ends the call. Last thing the kid needs is that mortification. The last thing Wade needs is an _excuse._

_(Wouldn’t that be fun?)_

Wade heads for the bathroom next, shoves off all his clothes for a long, cold shower, because fuck him, he’s still hard.

**[This is a fantasy.]**

Exactly. Fantasy does not reality make. Spidey doesn’t know what he looks like.

Wade turns on the shower. He hesitates, and then smacks his head on the tile when he adjusts the temperate to normal, steps under the spray, still hard, still thrumming from the sound of his name.

_(We keep our suit on then, it’s kinky)._

**[He’ll have to see our ass at some point. That’s a full moon with too many craters.]**

_(Not if we’re quick. Or we come gift-wrapped! Or why not just bend him over and **take.** )_

No. No. _Fuck,_ no.

**[We’re already a monster.]**

_(But a monster our sweet Spidey wants to ride.)_

Spidey doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want _Wade_. Not really. Not if he got the package deal.

Wade closes his eyes, wraps his hand around himself and shudders at the contact. Replays those soft gasps, the high keens of pleasure and _wants_.

_(It’s not unheard of.)_

Takes a rare person.

**[They also died.]**

_(Everyone dies.)_

Wade moans until his palm, his hips jerking into his hand. He doesn’t want to _think_ about that right now, goddammit. He doesn’t want to think about Nessa, or Nate, or anyone that’s _gone_.

If Spidey can have his fantasies, then fuck it, so can Wade. But that’s all they’ll ever be.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos always greatly appreciated <3
> 
> Come find me on my writing blog nevtelenwriting.tumblr.com


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